Office Space

On Saturday, a few hours before I rolled the scooter over my right foot, Tiffany and I enjoyed our first weekend breakfast in our new apartment. We made eggs over medium and toast. Tiffany cooks eggs over medium. I scramble. So she worked the skillet while I took the bread out of the bag and put it in the toaster. We warmed the butter on the stove top in between the burners and, in a few minutes, it spread easily on the browned tops of our toast.

It was a lovely start to the morning. But before we finished breakfast, we began to bicker. Specifically, we bickered about how much of Tiffany's "office space" should be mine.

We don't have an office. But we do have a little space. It's between our couch and one of our windows. Forty-six and a quarter inches of space, to be exact. This has been designated Tiffany's office, which I fully support. We're selling the furniture from our old apartment that doesn't fit in our new apartment and that money is going toward a just-the-right-size desk for Tiffany, who works from home on her clients' programs and needs a place to study.

I thought half the desk might be mine, when we get it. Tiffany didn't think so.

"I need my space to be organized," she said.

I bristled.

"I am..."

I paused.

"Okay, so maybe my side of the old desk was messy but your side was just as bad!"

I think it's a commonly-known tenet of therapy not to make accusations in a fight. But Tiffany and I aren't in therapy, and accusations slide so easily off the tongue, even between bites of perfectly cooked over-medium egg and beautifully buttered toast.

This particular jab was a low-blow. As you may have noticed in previous posts, Tiffany takes great pride in her organizational skills. Organizing is one of Tiffany's favorite tasks.

Aware that I had escalated a simple disagreement into one of those you-are-so-wrong fights, I stormed off to wash the dishes. One strategy I often resort to in such moments is to do something totally helpful because it's so obviously irritating. Running water also provides cover for under-the-breath cursing.

"I can do those," Tiffany seethed between her teeth.

"No, it's fine," I huffed, swooping in for her plate and swiping her unfinished mug of coffee.

Thankfully, it only took a few minutes for us to come to our senses. We remembered that we love each other (and even like each other too!). I promised to be neater and admitted that I do not need 23 and one-eighth inches for my checkbook, address book and stamps. Tiffany conceded that, given the fact we do not have an actual office, I might need to sit down at the desk once in a while. Having resolved the matter, we huddled in the 46 and a quarter inches together and considered whether the couch could move closer to the radiator to stretch the space to a full four feet (It cannot.).